Can I join the Justice League?

Many superheroes gain their powers through some random accident or mishap.

Peter Parker "gets bitten by a radioactive spider during a science demonstration" and becomes Spiderman. Bruce Wayne "[witnessed] the murder of his parents as a child [leading] him to train himself to physical and intellectual perfection and don a bat-themed costume in order to fight crime" as Batman. Dr. Robert Bruce Banner "was caught in the blast of a gamma bomb he created" and was transformed into the Incredible Hulk. (Source: Wikipedia)

Therefore, I had my hopes up on Saturday night that perhaps it would be my turn.

You see, I was undergoing a sleep study at Global Sleep to see if I have any sleeping disorders. Rumor has had it for quite some time that I snore. That's been the urban legend within Summit Ministries and among my friends for many years. It seems like each retreat, ski trip, or mission trip stirs up the rumors once again. Now that I have a permanent roommate, it was time to solve the mystery once and for all. (Her cell phone recording of my snoring gave some degree of proof to the myth, but that is not scientific data, thank you very much!)

So there I was -- asleep in a poorly decorated room on the 6th floor of a six-story office building in the Town & Country area. I tried to convince myself that I was in a penthouse suite. (That's how I like to think I roll.) But the reality is, I've never stayed in a place that hooks you up with wires and sensors to monitor your eye movement, jaw movement, leg movement, brainwaves, breathing, oxygen level and more. At least not that I know of.

At some point in the wee hours of the night, I was awakened by a low rumbling sound. Was it one of the machines monitoring my every breath and movement? Was it a delivery truck or garbage collector making their late night run?

FLASH!

The lightning revealed the source of my premature awakening. A thunderstorm was rolling in to town.

"This is my chance," I thought. "It's my turn now!"

A bolt of lightning hitting just the right place on the building would send an electrical surge through the steel beams, through the electrical socket, into the monitoring devices and down the wires connected to my body. In that split-second -- before anybody knew what happened -- I would become the next great American superhero . . .

THE SNORATOR

Oh, yes! As The Snorator, I could make people drowsy or put them into a deep sleep at the snap of my fingers (as opposed to at the writing of a boring blog entry). Imagine the good this could do for the world!

• Crying babies would no longer annoy audiences at movies the infant's parents shouldn't have brought them to in the first place!


• Long-winded politicians and pundits would never finish their rants on cable news programs!


• Whoever the Astros are playing in the post-season playoffs would never be quite alert enough to put up a fight!


• Nobody would tune in to watch Oprah taking a nap!

The possibilities are endless!

But alas, the lightning never struck. My opportunity was lost. I am not the next great American superhero. That means I cannot save the world as I had hoped -- and it means I have to put Braden's twin-size sheet back on his bed.

I won't need a cape after all.

Like finding hay in a haystack

Nice product placement, Abercrombie & Fitch. How did you pull that off?



Oh, wait ... that's right. It's hard to find any three random frat guys standing next to each other who are NOT wearing your self-promoting, over-priced t-shirts.

Personally, I prefer my self-promoting, over-priced Polo shirts. They aren't as obvious.

Shame on you, inbound commuters on the west side of Houston

What would you do if you saw this on the way in to work?

Well, apparently all of the thousands of inbound commuters on the west side of Houston either (1) cannot read, (2) don't have working horns, or (3) are stick-in-the-mud fuddy-duddies. We turned the radio down and had the windows cracked so we would be sure not to miss any birthday honks. But we got nothin'. Nada.

"Why aren't they honking for me, daddy?"

After I picked my heart up off the floorboards, I replied with an attempt to lighten the moment.

"Well, buddy, maybe they don't know how to read. Maybe they didn't practice their sight word books like you do!"

"Maybe they're old and don't know how to read," Braden reasoned with his newly acquired five-year old logic.

After a few more blocks of honk-free silence, he chimed in with his assessment of the situation.

"I think this was a bad idea."

That was the last straw. I was determined to solicit some honks one way or another. For a second, I thought about fashioning some sort of "Please honk!" sign that I could flash out my driver's side window. Instead, I decided to "lead by example" and honk myself, thus showing my fellow commuters that it is OK to honk for no good reason other than to bring joy to a 5 year old.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

Immediately, the driver of a 99-cent store 18-wheeler in the lane next to us followed my lead.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

I quickly turned around to see Braden's face light up with a big ol' grin. ("Whew!" I thought.)

"Hey buddy! Did you hear that? Mack honked for you!"

Right about then, we hopped on the HOV lane in order to make it to school on time. There aren't many opportunities for other vehicles to read your rear window on the HOV lane, so it was quiet from that point on. But, as only a father would foolishly do, I promised him that the day wasn't over yet and that people may honk tonight on the way to soccer practice.

So, if you're on the west side of town tonight and you see the car above, for the love of God -- HONK!

What's In A Name?

Soccer season kicked off last night with our first practice and parents' meeting. One of the items on the agenda: choosing a team name.

This crucial decision was left in the hands of the kids (under the guidance of the coach's wife) while the coach conducted the parents' meeting. She took suggestions from the two girls and four boys assembled in a huddle on the field. One boy offered "tornadoes" and one girl threw out "Strawberry Shortcake" (the character) as possible names.

With a 2-to-1 ratio of boys to girls, you would think that Braden would be playing for the "tornadoes" in his first adventure with team sports. Right?

Wrong.

Turns out, one of the boys loves him some strawberry shortcake for dessert -- so that's how he cast his vote. The results were tied: 3 for tornadoes, 3 for Strawberry Shortcake.

In her wisdom, the coach's wife offered up a compromise. The kids accepted her idea, and thus became the Strawberry Tornadoes.

When we talked about his new team later that night and referred to it by name, Braden advised us to simply refer to them as the "Tornadoes" when we're at home.

Agreed.


(By the way, another boy showed up late and missed the vote. I would like to think that he, too, would have voted for the "tornadoes" thus preventing the need for a compromise. Instead, we'll let this serve as an example to our future voters that every vote counts.)

Introducing Jesus

Love it.

Reactions to the new 'do

Three years after I first started growing my hair long, I finally decided I was over it. The number of out-of-control-flying-in-my-face bad hair days were beginning to outnumber the good ones. Plus, since I am now responsible for getting our son to school on time, I could benefit from shaving a few minutes off my prep time in the morning.

Amanda opted to try out a new hair place near our house before I went there. In her words, "I'll sacrifice my hair at the altar in search of a good stylist for you." So sweet! She went on Wednesday and really liked the lady, so we went together on Thursday for my turn. I needed Amanda there for emotional support and to talk the lingo. I don't speak hairdresser.

Here are some before, during and after pictures ... plus a shot of the aftermath. It was too short for Locks of Love. Amanda turned down my offer to put them in a lovely vase on the mantle.

Reactions to the new hair:

• "I like that look ... for you."
• "Braden's daddy got a haircut! That's funny."
• "You look 10 years younger."
• "The longer hair gave you more personality." (um, thanks!)
• "Dude ... what happened?"
• "Sir, may I help you?" (from someone who didn't recognize me at FBA)
• "That's different."
• "Honey, you look hot ... er."
• "You look like a guy in Spy Kids 2."
• "You have a relevant haircut and a community with your new family ... now you just need to be godly."
• "He looks younger and THINNER!" (thanks, Amanda's co-workers!)
• "WOW!"
• "Whoa!"
• "Congrats, old, married man - now you look the part! : )"
• "Ooooooh! You are so cute! You are so adorable! It's so cute!"
• "You look so baby-faced." (a follow-up comment from the person who said the long hair gave me more personality)
• "Oh, Mylanta!"
• "LOVE THE HAIR!! Lookin' really studly : ) "

More will be added as the day goes on . . .

I was hazed ... FINALLY!

I went through rush twice at Baylor and never got a bid from a fraternity. I got over it a long, long time ago ... but Saturday really helped put to rest any lingering issues I may have had with the rejection.

Months ago, I told my groomsmen and ushers to save the date this weekend for a possible overnight stay somewhere -- a dude ranch? fishing trip? But as the BIG DAY approached and time and money became less and less available, I readjusted my expectations -- and I handed it over to Lincoln and Hilburn to figure out.

What was I thinking?

Well, my groomsdudes and ushers picked me up at 3:00 pm at the new house. I wasn't sure what the plans were. I was blissfully going along for the ride and enjoying the fact that this was one thing that I did not have to plan or prepare for.

The guys arrived and I was told to dress warm. OK, I can do that. Next, I was told to put on Todd's iPod to drown out their conversations. OK, I can do that. Next, I was blindfolded. I can handle that. Then came a shirt that was slipped over my head as the guys chuckled. Knowing how loving and wholesome these guys are, I knew in my heart it didn't say anything offensive like "Hillary 2008" or "Gig 'Em Aggies!" on it.

Off we went as Mike and Todd walked poor lil' blind me to the car. I did my best to gauge where we were based on the turns we took, but I don't know the area well enough yet so I gave up by the time we were out of the neighborhood.

After what seemed like half an hour or more, we came to our mystery destination. Being shut off from the world around me and not interacting with others -- despite sensing their presence and hearing muffled conversations -- I finally understood what introverts feel like. Bless their hearts.

With my eyes closed, my other senses were heightened. Or at least, they were working really hard to give me some clues to my whereabouts. I could tell there was a lot of traffic, pedestrians walking by (laughing at me), and some sort of sweet smell in the air. Were we at a festival? The Car Show? Traders' Village? I was clueless.

We took another short walk seemingly right into traffic. Eventually we got to our final stop -- or at least MY final stop. The guys rallied around and cuffed me to a pole first, and then they did the unthinkable -- the sprayed something on my hair. What concerned me was that the aerosol substance smelled exactly like real spray paint -- like something you would spray on wood to permanently change its color. ("Seriously guys?" I thought. "Actually spray paint in my hair one week before the wedding? For the love!") But I laughed it off not wanting to be Debbie Downer in midst of all the fun.

Then the blindfold came off and I found my self in the middle of Galleria traffic at the intersection of Westheimer and Post Oak -- tied to a lamp post in the median with hot pink hair and shirt that said, "Need Money! Getting Married!"

Their victim in place, the guys took off for Starbucks to hang out and watch me panhandle. My first dollar came from a guy who slowed down enough to drop his contribution in my collection bucket and wish me "congratulations" as he proceeded with his left turn.

After that, the funds dried up. I even tried to hit up pedestrians as they crossed the street. It's the Galleria, so only about half of them spoke English. One young, nicely dressed couple with shopping bags and Starbucks coffee was pleasant and encouraging -- but they didn't cough up jack. "Come on! You're shopping in the Galleria with $4 coffee!" I pointed out. "You can spare something!" They weren't feeling very charitable.

Who knows how many cars passed by me during my stint as a panhandler. Remarkably, I would say only about 25% of the people stopped at the red light ever made eye-contact with me. There were a few who appeared to giggle at my predicament -- a METRO bus driver, a pick-up full of landscape workers, and two early twenty-something girls in a F-150 and a sticker of a rifle on the driver's window. But for the most part, people treated me as though I was about to wash their windshields with my own spit.

The guys called to inform me that they would free me once I raised $5. With just $1 in hand and people acting as though the recession had already hit, I was looking forward to the tan I would be getting. Might as well get comfortable -- and really start working it!

At one point, I took out my wallet and considered dropping in my own cash to buy my freedom. But I rejected the temptation. I wanted to earn this the honest all-American way -- by acting a fool and freeloading off of strangers.

Being an extrovert, it did trouble me that I did not see one person I knew. Surely, if somebody I knew drove by and saw me, wouldn't they have honked? Wouldn't they have circled around and fought Saturday traffic in the Galleria just to come back by to say "hello" and give to the cause? I mean, that IS the polite thing to do in such a situation. Ask Emily Post.

"STEVEN MURRAY!"

I had been found! Somebody in this huge metropolitan city had recognized me and was getting my attention. I looked around in all directions and finally saw the arms waving out of a car window. In the afternoon glare I couldn't quite tell who it was. All I knew was they were a few cars back in the turn lane by me and were obviously VERY excited to see me. In just a few moments I would find out who it was.

It was Amanda.

Turns out, she and LB were running errands and LB said she wanted Starbucks. Off they went toward the Starbucks near the scene of the crime -- the corner of Post Oak and Westheimer. (LB was in on it with my guys the whole time.) The light turned green and here she came grinning from ear to ear as she saw her fiance shamelessly begging for money.

While she and LB hung out with the guys, my sugar daddy came along. A young dude who was stopped at the light right next to me dropped in $8. He wished me "congratulations" as well and said he totally understood having recently been married himself. If it weren't for the #$%&@ ties holding me to the pole, I would have shook his hand.

I called the guys to tell them I had earned my freedom -- I had surpassed the $5 goal. I told them I would raise more if Amanda came out and stood there with me. Since she had her hair done up that morning to test out hairstyles for the wedding, she would be sure to get looks. Who wouldn't check out a beautiful woman in a hoodie, ripped jeans and an up-do?

Amanda crossed traffic and came to join me. Turns out, she came to rescue me to with scissors in hand. A car in the turn lane honked and waved a dollar out her window. Amanda proudly went to fetch it. I told Amanda we should stand there together for awhile and see how much cash we could pull in as a couple, but she wouldn't go for it. She cut the ties that bound me and off we went to meet up with LB and the guys.

So, about 19 years after it could have happened, I was finally hazed by my brothers. And it was good times!

This is NOT Comcastic

The Comcast dude just left our place after four hours of getting us set up. I'm assuming everything works. Time will tell if everything is Comcastic.

What is NOT Comcastic is that the technician apparently called some of his buddies and told him where he was working. I noticed a car waiting by the curb with a couple of other dudes in it. At first, I figured it was one of our new neighbors. But when the technician left, the driver of the other car got out and it was clear that they were friends.

What is really NOT Comcastic is this: before the friends' car pulled away, they dumped the leftovers of their McDonald's lunch on the street. Nice, huh?

OK ... I better shut down and go clean this up before our neighbors think we're "those people" who litter.

We'll take 12 Coca-Cola glasses, 1 country oil lamp, 2 rocking chairs and 1 country apple-scented candle

One of my most favorite co-workers at HFBC is Shirley. Originally from Diboll in deep East Texas, Shirley has an accent that arrives about two minutes before she does wherever she goes.

You may recall a previous post I made about her experience with OnStar. She had to cancel the service because everytime she called them the operator had to put her on hold while they found a specialized linguist to interpret what she was saying.

That's what makes a recent question she asked me all the more hilarious and endearing.

I ran into her at the cafe at church as I was leaving and she was standing in line. She and another employee stopped me to ask about the wedding and to share their excitement with me. As I walked away, Shirley asked, "Now, are you registered at Cracker Barrel?"

Actually, now that I live outside both loops, maybe we should register there!

The Eagle has Fallen

Today is Saturday, January 12 -- my first full day in our new home on Eagle Falls Street.

The good folks from Cantu Moving showed up at my townhouse on Friday at 9:00 am sharp. Too sharp, actually. I overslept and spent the first hour or so helping them move in my glasses and morning hair. Not my best look, but one of the guys said they were used to it. By 11:15 am, we were packed up and on the road. By 1:30 or so, the trucks were unloaded and I was starting to arrange the furniture. Amazing. To all of my friends out there reading this whom I did not ask to help me move (and that's all of you) -- you're welcome!

Life out here in the 'burbs is off to a fine start. Here's a recap of what I've experienced so far:

• The first "tragedy" from the move -- I dropped a candle in a glass jar on the kitchen floor. Shards all over the place. Nice.
• Amanda and I unpacked some things while Braden was at Parents' Night Out at HFBC. We decided to go get something to eat before picking him up. She recommended either an Italian place of some kind or Wing Stop. Since she was sportin' a polo shirt with her company logo embroidered on the front, we opted for Wing Stop. "Honey, you're dressed for wings," I had to tell her.
• Today, Braden (in socked feet) slipped on the wood floors and fell into one of the end tables. I was sure that he hit his head on the corner and that we would be finding the nearest emergency room sooner than expected. Turns out, he just bummed his knee and was fine after a minute or so. The wood floor, however, has a scratch to commemorate the first accident.
• This afternoon, we ordered Girl Scout cookies from a neighbor across the street. Amanda and Braden were here visiting this afternoon so the girl's mom gave us a rundown of who lives on the street and where all the kids are. Thin Mints have been ordered and all is right with the world!
• I fixed a leak behind the washing machine. Both faucets were dripping and managed to get the utility room floor all wet. My first thought was that I would have to go to Lowe's and figure out what part I needed to buy to fix it. Then, my eyes fell on a wrench laying out on the kitchen table and I had a sudden jolt of "do it yourself" confidence rush through me. A few good twists and the problem was fixed.
• Finally, I called to set up our cable with Comcast. Turns out, I cannot transfer my 713 home phone number to this part of town. We now have a 281 home phone number. Thank God I had already experienced giving up stakes in the ground and discovered the joy that can be found when we do. Otherwise, I may have cursed the woman out.

As I type this, Amanda is off getting a manicure and Braden is practicing his mad dance moves to "Cha Cha Slide" in the kitchen. He's brushing up for the reception. I've tought him how to replay the song on the iPod. He's wrapping up his fourth time through the song.

Just another day in the 'burbs!

A Worthy Cause

This story is heartwarming and inspiring. Amanda and I have decided to take an extra week off for our honeymoon to help out with the cause.

I love me some of this ...

As a follow-up to my last post ... tonight, as Braden and I were driving on the Katy Freeway at rush hour to meet Amanda somewhere, he busted out with, "I love me some Chick-Fil-A!" I think it was his way of dropping a hint about what he wanted for dinner.

Then, he warmed my heart with, "I love me some Steven!" Precious and adorable, right? Right.

Then, after going nowhere for awhile as we sat bumper-to-bumper with other frustrated commuters, he exclaimed, "I love me some traffic!"

Fuddruckers, Chick-Fil-A, traffic, and me. Either there's a pattern that I'm not seeing, or he just loves him some anything.

Like (soon to be) father, like son?

Here are a few random things that Braden has shared with us recently:

"I love me some Fuddruckers!" -- on our way to eat there with my parents. I'm trusting that FBA will straighten out his grammar if we don't do it first.

"You don't know my life!" -- in response to just about anything. For those who know the story, you'll recognize that as the punchline from a story Natalie White Kondratenko shared years ago. I wonder where he got that from?

"Well, actually ..." -- a phrase he actually uses correctly.

"Mommy, can I eat seeds?" -- clearly a sympathetic response to my recent bout with diverticulitis. He was about to eat sausage, and he remembered that I could not eat it at Candelari's fearing the fennel seeds inside.

"Steven is the best! Steven is the best!" -- OK, I just had to throw that in. Of course, I don't go around saying that so I'm not sure where he got that from.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue ... what in the world IS that thing?

If you're like me on long flights, you doze in and out of sleep capturing a glimpse here and there of all that's going on in the cabin around you. Now, imagine opening your eyes during one of your more lucid moments to find this hanging off the passenger's ponytail in front of you:



That's what happened to some poor folks on a flight from Peru to the United States. Kinda reminds me of this guy:

Welcome to the country!

Amanda and I closed on our new home today. I'm not sure when I'll move in, but Amanda and Braden for sure will not move in until after the wedding.

So for now, I can say that I have a city home and a house in the country. I like saying that.

After we closed, we drove by the house and around the neighborhood. We spotted a woman walking her dog -- and a bird. That's right. She was walking a bird. She carried a perch of some kind in her gloved hand, and had a bird (on a chain) sitting on the perch.

And people tell me inner-loopers are weird.

Now THAT is bootylicious!

On our way to Amanda's parents' house the other night, a car entered the freeway just before I did. But in this case, to use the term "car" is like using the term "house" to describe Versailles or the Biltmore Estate.

No, my friends. This was no mere car. This was a Rolls Royce Phantom.

Sure, this wasn't the first Rolls Royce I had ever come across. Living in Houston, it isn't all that unusual -- especially when the local Rolls Royce dealership is just a few miles from my home and conveniently located on my route to Amanda's house. Every time I drive by, my heart goes out to those poor little cars desparate to find a home. Some people get misty-eyed at animal shelters. I tear up driving by the Rolls dealership.

So there we were ... just a few feet behind this beautiful specimen on the open freeway. I did my best to keep up with it -- partially so I could behold its beauty, and partially so I could see who was driving it. (Just who do they think they are? And would they be my friend?)

We managed to stay on its tail from US-59 and Kirby to somewhere near UH on I-45. Once or twice, we even came alongside the creature and were able to stare into its eyes. And by that, I mean we stared into its windows to see who was at the wheel.

Amanda and I are 99.9% sure that it was Beyonce's parents. Just the day before, I saw a special on TV about Beyonce so I had a fresh visual in my mind about what they looked like. That evening, some googling confirmed our assumptions.

Gee whiz, Beyonce. Thanks for showing us up! Among the things my parents got for Christmas this year were some Starbucks coffee, a shirt or two, a flower pot from the Mad Potter (with Braden's thumbprints as the flowers), and a "Hillary" nutcracker courtesy of my brother and sister-in-law.

It may not be as classy as a Rolls, but at least nobody is going to chase them down to get a good look.

An unpleasant diversion

On Monday, I began to feel a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. I chalked it up to possibly pulling something while packing and moving heavy boxes into my PODS unit on Sunday. But on Monday evening when I went to bed, I could not get warm -- tossing and turning with the chills. Now, I've had about as many pulled muscles in my life as I've had athletic accomplishments, but I'm pretty sure that pulled muscles don't result in a fever.

On Tuesday, the pain was sharp and somewhat debilitating, making it difficult to stand up and even to walk. I tried to get in to my doctor, but he wasn't available until Wednesday morning. So, I decided to suck it up and ride out the pain until then.

Amanda, however, had other plans. On Tuesday night, she convinced me that I needed to go to the ER. She consulted with her father (a veterinarian) about my symptoms and he, too, recommended the same action plan. The likely diagnosis? Appendicitis.

So, around 7:30 pm, Amanda picked me up and off we went to Memorial Hermann Northwest on the north 610 Loop.

The only other time I had been to an ER was in October 1989 after I fell asleep at the wheel on I-45 north of Huntsville and rolled over. I was a little out of it, to say the least, so I do not have many memories of it -- other than the Codeine-enhanced ride home to Baytown with Mom and Dad. (Yummy!)

While Amanda ooh-ed and aah-ed over the sick babies, I did my best to sit still and not be mistaken for one. I'll confess right up front that I am a baby when I'm sick. A big ol' baby who just wants to curl up under the covers and call it a day. Granted, that's not a good look on a man -- especially when that man still felt a sense of responsibility to protect his woman from the ne'er-do-wells in the ER. It wasn't time for me to let my guard down ... yet.

The good folks in the ER checked me in, drew my blood, and took a ... um ... sample in a cup. Fortunately, the sample cup came with written instructions. Detailed instructions. VERY detailed instructions -- with diagrams, too. That there are people in this world who need step-by-step help in order to pee in a cup troubles me greatly.

Around 9:00 pm, the real waiting began. During our temporary residence in the holding area, I stayed warm under a sheet provided by a nurse and Amanda resolved to pay more attention to the 2008 presidential election. She was convinced that she was witnessing first-hand all that is wrong with the American healthcare system. Finally, at 11:45 pm, my name was called.

I'll spare you the long story, but after two vanilla-flavored barium drinks, a CT scan, and IVs with pain killers and antibiotics, I dodged a bullet. The doctor was able to rule out appendicitis -- a potential outcome that would have required me to check-in to the hospital and possibly have surgery within a few hours. (When he said surgery was a possibility, I asked if he could do a little liposuction while he was down there.) Instead, he determined that I had acute diverticulitis.

To be honest with you, I think Amanda and I were both a little disappointed at the diagnosis.

For me, I knew that having surgery for appendicitis would have made for a better blog entry. Diverticulitis may be a little too personal, and certainly not a pleasant topic of conversation. For her, she missed out on getting a kiss -- something she promised (threatened?) to give me before they took me into the operating room if it came to that. "Just in case I never see you again!" Thanks for the encouragement, sweetheart! =)

My next reaction? Praise the Lord it's nothing more serious! A prescription for some antibiotics and pain killers was all I took home with me that night -- no scars or bandages. The only thing I left at the hospital that night was a little bit of my pride. In addition to the medications, the doctor told me to use Metamucil every day -- from now on.

The trauma of being prescribed Metamucil was compounded by the fact that when I received the orders, I was wearing my hospital gown with my black dress socks. Not only was I facing an "old man's" medical condition and being told to add an "old man's" supplement to my diet, but I was dressed like an "old man," too.

The good news? Amanda witnessed it all and she still wants to marry me.


EXTRA BONUS STORY!
For those of you who have read this entire post, here's an added bonus. The ER nurse shared a story with us about a relative of hers who has to have a colonoscopy every year. The relative also has a neighbor with a yapping, barking, high-energy little dog who often gets into their backyard.

One year, while this relative was preparing for the procedure the next day by drinking "Go Lightly" (a "bowel prep liquid") to clear out his system, he decided that he had had enough. So, the next morning, he soaked a biscuit in the remaining few sips of the "Go Lightly" liquid and placed it by the hole where the annoying dog entered their yard.

When he came home from work that afternoon, he looked over the fence to see the results of his scheme. I won't go into details here like the nurse did with us, but rest assured that that dog never came through that hole in their fence again. It learned its lesson!

Adventures with Coffee

A couple of stories from our attempt to find coffee on Friday night ...

Adventure #1
Amanda and I went to the POPS concert at Jones Hall with my family on Friday night. Afterwards, she and I decided to go somewhere for some coffee since it wasn't very late and since Braden with with her parents that evening. A perfect setting for a spontaneous "date" with each other.

Since Daily Grind now closes at some ridiculously early hour, I decided to try a place I had seen further down on Washington Avenue closer to downtown. It was a bit of a risk since I had never been before, but what the heck -- let's give it a try.

As we drove past it, we slowed down to look inside. The lights were on and there were at least 10-12 people sitting around at tables. Good sign.

So, we parked in the back parking lot and entered through the back door. That entrance opened into a small hallway where the restrooms were located. Amanda stopped by the ladies' room and I proceeded to go through the next door into the main room.

Since the counter was on my left, my attention immediately turned to the large menu board. The clerk politely informed me that they would be closing in about 20 minutes, but I continued to look over the available drinks.

However, I was greatly disturbed and uneasy. I knew that there were several people in the room, but it was practically dead silent. Since my back was to the tables as I looked over the menu, I really couldn't assess what was going on.

Was my fly open?
Had I crashed a private party?
Had they mistaken me for Matthew McConaughy?

So, I casually put my hands in my pockets, looked down at my feet, and tried to act all "breezy" as I waited for Amanda to come out. Then, as effortlessly as possible, I looked up to face the silent crowd, not knowing what I would discover.

As it turns out, the coffee shop that night was filled with 10-12 deaf people -- all of whom were actively engaged in lively discussions with one another over lattes and mochas. The silence had nothing to do about me at all. I went back into the hallway where the restrooms were located and waited for Amanda. I explained that the shop was closing in 20 minutes, and suggested we try to find another place. Then I told her what had transpired.

Bless my heart.

Adventure #2
In search of coffee, we drove by the obligatory Cafe Brasil (one of my least favorite places) and quickly crossed it off the list. There was a band playing -- one of the reasons I don't care for the place. Too small and too loud. Empire Cafe looked promising, but they, too, were closing in about 10 minutes. (Since when is 11:00 pm the standard closing time?)

Not wanting to hang out at a Starbucks, I asked Amanda if Mama's Cafe were OK with her. (I do love me some of their cinnamon coffee!) She said that it was, but admitted that since she only likes fancy-schmancy coffee drinks, there really isn't much there for her. So, we drove through Starbucks to get her a Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha.

As we walked up to Mama's, Amanda asked if I were sure that she could bring the Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha in with her. "No problem," I assured her. "This place is very casual -- they won't mind."

Not two seconds later, we enter the front door and see a sign that says "No outside beverages" posted right inside. It was on 8.5 x 11 paper and taped to the door. Clearly, this was a new policy courtesy of the Mama's Cafe management.

Amanda was reluctant to break the rules, but in a momentary lapse of leadership, I encouraged her to hide the Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha and bring it in. So as not to look too suspicious as we debated the risks inside the vestibule with the host looking at us through the glass doors, I quickly opened the door and asked for a booth for two.

Amanda slyly walked with her Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha down by her side. I was reminded of a Seinfeld episode in that moment -- the one where Raquel Welch plays herself and is criticized for not swinging her arms when she walks.

We get to our booth and Amanda quickly places her contraband Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha in the corner, blocked from view by her purse and jacket.

Thanks to a slow waitress, we had time to plan our strategy for how Amanda will be able to drink her Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha. We would BOTH order coffee, and I would drink hers first -- very quickly. Then, she would poor her Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha into her cup. Genius! Right?

Well, we didn't plan out all of the details. I ordered my cinnamon coffee, and then Amanda ordered plain coffee. ("Oh no," I thought, "I'll have to drink plain unflavored coffee!") When the coffee came, I did my best to drink her cup -- but it was REALLY hot and REALLY dark.

Amanda suggested that we pour the coffee into her water glass. I suggested that I poor it into one of the potted plants nearby. We opted for the water glass option -- creating what looked like a cup of iced tea. If the waitress were paying any attention at all, she may wonder where that glass of tea had come from.

Our solution? Put it on the floor and out of site. We did not account for how to explain the missing water glass if the waitress were to come and refill. Fortunately, the waitress did not seem to be playing with a full deck that night and never said a word.

But we couldn't make the transfer just yet. The waitress had not brought us any creamer, so for Amanda to suddenly have an obviously creamed cup of coffee may look suspicious. Even though the waitress was somewhat spaced out and unlikely to notice, we asked for creamers.

Now, with an empty coffee cup ready to receive her mocha and creamers on the table, Amanda proceeded to make the transfer from the Starbucks cup to the Mama's mug. She did so off to the side against the wall below the table top where nobody could see.

And then she shrieked!

The lid popped off her Starbucks cup, spilling half of her Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha onto her jacket and the floor below. The other half made it into the Mama's mug. We scrambled for napkins to absorb the flood, soaking up what was on the floor and on Amanda's seat.

I was reminded of another Seinfeld episode -- the one when Kramer smuggles a latte into the movie theater inside his pants.

The Starbucks cup held the used napkins, and we even managed to poor the "iced tea" into it as well. By the time the waitress returned, all she saw was two cups of coffee (one with creamer) and two empty water glasses (both with a little ice since we dumped some of mine into Amanda's). The waitress was none the wiser.

OK, sure, it's not like we really got away with anything spectacular -- bit the antics of it all were fun. And since we may have caused our waitress some grief after we left due to the hidden mess we had made, we gave her a nice big "Merry Christmas!" tip. You may call it a "guilt tip" but it's still money in her hands this time of year.

Permanent "Man Card" status?

Forgot to tell you ...

Last Monday, I took Braden to buy a few Christmas presents. As we were about to leave, I heard two of the staff members shrieking in the back by the service exit door. My initial thought: Somebody is trying to break in or attack one of the workers, taking advantage of the dark alley behind the building!

I looked around the corner and saw that the back door was open. One of the young ladies was looking outside and asking if the other were OK. My next thought: There was only a mild degree of panic, so there must not be an intruder. The other employee must be hurt and needs help!

As I approached the door, I saw that the presumed-injured employee was standing outside the door, apparently in perfect health. My CSI skills detected that they were both looking in the same direction toward a spot on the ground about six feet from the door. My next thought: These silly little girls saw a harmless mouse and are overreacting a bit, if you ask me.

I could not see anything in the dark shadows. Since I had approached the scene and was standing right next to them (with Braden in tow), I felt obliged to ask if everything were OK. My next thought: When they tell me they saw a mouse, Lord, please give me the strength not to laugh.

"It's a snake!" one of them shrieked. Sure enough, that nearly indistinguishable dark mass there in the shadows was a coiled up snake. While we could have left well enough alone, an inner urge inside of me swelled up and the need -- yes, the need -- to neutralize the threat took over. My next thought: Must ... kill ... snake!

The serpent was about 18 inches long, although it will grow to about five feet in a few years when I retell this story every time I go in to Mad Potter. One of the employees handed me a sponge mop handle at first, but that really only served to annoy the demon. It started coming back toward the doorway as if it were taunting me. I traded in the sponge mop handle for a heavy metal display fixture of some kind. With my new weapon in hand, I set about to crush the serpent. It took a few blows to finish the job since it kept trying to slither away ... but it was not match for me, I tell you what. My next thought: I am a hero!

The employees thanked me for saving their lives. As we came back into the store, none of the other customers seemed to have a clue about what had transpired -- about how I had rescued them from living out a scene from Anaconda or any snake-based SciFi Channel movie-of-the-week. My next thought: Those SciFi Channel movies sure are lame, aren't they?

My second-to-last thought of the evening was, "Well, this should really earn me a life-time 'Man Card' -- I can't wait to tell Hilburn!" My final thought, though, was, "I wonder if the fact that all of this went down at The Mad Potter will negate my heroism and my permanent 'Man Card' eligibility?"

You decide.

Violet Beauregarde: Smuggler?

I called the wrecker service in Falfurrias. (There's a phrase I've never said before.) The kind receptionist confirmed that the Explorer was, indeed, used to smuggle illegal aliens. Nice.

And even though I explained that I am no longer the owner, she said that -- by law -- she has to mail me a second notice "41 days" from the date it was impounded. However, she says that I do not have to take any action at all. I'm not totally at ease with that, so I may try to track down a more reassuring resolution.

On top of that, I just received the vehicle registration renewal notice for the now-impounded Explorer. The kind lady at Paul Bettencourt's office said that I could disregard the notice, but that I should fill out and mail in form VTR 346 to notify the state that I no longer own this car. Ah ... government!

It's a sad end for this faithful 1995 Explorer.

It was my brother's car until he handed it down to me a few years ago. Those of you who ever saw it know that Jeff had an affinity for the color blue: blue paint, blue seats, blue dashboard, blue radio. I often felt like I was Violet Beauregarde in the Chocolate Factory.

Big and blue. Very, very blue.